BREASTS OF STEEL - Female centric short film raises €1000 on first day

Writer/director of Unexpected Monsters Sophia Tamaro never thought that 20% of the crowdfunding goal of the short film would be raised in so little time. It’s a short psychological drama about a mother who stalks her estranged daughter as she shoots to fame. But the Berlin-based production has amassed followers across the globe, raising important questions about female-centric casts, crews and stories. Nevertheless, while it is not easy to find strong, like-minded people to be part of the crew, it’s
an even harder task not to come off as man-excluding. The crew is made up of talent from both genders, who have come from different corners of the world to create Unexpected Monsters.
The campaign is still looking for a lot of support, YOUR support.

For more information on the Indiegogo campaign, click here:

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/unexpected-monsters-short-film-drama/x/8056118#/

Our Facebook page with weekly feeds and info from behind the scenes, click here:
https://www.facebook.com/unexpectedmonsters/

Follow us on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/WeAreMonstersss

Cat Eyes Caught In Smoke

She stepped out of the crowded bar and onto the street. More crowds, gearing themselves up for a night on the town.
She sighed and walked a few more steps into the night.

There it was - her corner. She crossed her legs as she leaned against the cold brick wall.
It wasn't like her at all, but she rummaged through her bag and found the cancerous villains she had been avoiding since she stole them off the attractive coworker she snuck out to see any chance she got: cigarettes.
She magically found her old Breakfast At Tiffany's lighter too, the one she had promised herself was strictly for lighting candles and exes on fire.
Then there she stood in the light rain, smoking, for the first time in years.
She took a deep, toxic drag, eyes to the floor.

But a voice awoke her from her pensive trance. She looked up as the smoke curled in front of her eyes.
He stood on the other side of the road, outside another crowded bar.
They were apart, but his eyes locked into hers and for a moment the world stood still.
Only the smoke from her forgotten cigarette kept curling in the ever-changing space between them.

The Adventures of Elisabeth and Frederick - Part 3

"One of my favourite artists is coming to Berlin in about two weeks," said Elisabeth one night.
"Who's that?" Frederick replied.
"Escapade - he's this absolute sensation in the music world, he mixes all kinds of tones and genres into one huge visual and auditory experience. It's mostly things you can lift your arms to and dramatically sway from side to side. Or slow dance."
"Is that a hint?"
"I never hint. Will you come with me?"
"Of course I will. But you should know that us Berliners take our dancing very seriously."
"Can you teach me?"
"It can't be taught. It's just letting yourself be transported, as if you were floating in water and the strong currents moved you. Just like that."
"Sounds like pretentious bullshit to me."

They spent the concert never leaving each other's side. Frederick enjoyed himself immensely, and to Elisabeth's delight, he lifted her onto his shoulders when Escapade played her favourite song. They left themselves to be immersed in the mood and the sweat of the wild crowd and eventually, they shut out the world, remaining the only two people that mattered on earth that night.

Elisabeth often saw their relationship as an out-of-body experience. Sometimes, when they lay intertwined at night, or when she would watch him stack his books alphabetically in a shelf she had helped him put up, she saw them in their undeniable love bubble. It scared her, as she had been in another love bubble not long before she had chosen Berlin, and all the passion then had turned sour very quickly.
When Frederick had asked her to move in with him, Elisabeth said no. It was a choice divided between fear and the desire to maintain some independence. She had calmly explained this to Frederick, who had shrugged in a rather un-German fashion: they spent so much of their time together, why not make it official?
"Because then there would be no more mystery between us. We'll know the smallest, most insignificant details about one another, like how often you do your laundry or how long it takes me to brush my hair in the morning."
Her long hair was her pride and joy.

"I already know that," he replied without sulking. Instead, he reached over to her nightstand, grabbed her wooden comb and proceeded to brush through the reddish brown mane on the head of the woman he loved.

The Adventures of Elisabeth and Frederick - Part 2

Their adventures began with a spontaneous trip to Prague. They walked and explored every part of town and found people who would take their picture without running away with the expensive camera.
The weekend turned out to be far too brief, as these moments always are, but it left a lasting impression on both of them. Frederick realised that Elisabeth was a better traveling companion than anyone he had known before. When they fought, it didn't take long for them to forget or find a relatively diplomatic solution, usually one that would require no clothes at all and nothing but each other's embrace. Elisabeth understood that Frederick, unlike the boys and men she had known before, was the opposite of someone who liked to create unnecessary drama out of thin air. His jealousy episodes if one can call them that were tempered and overwhelmingly short. And more than that, he never gave her a reason to be jealous.
Their conversations deepened with time. They spoke of their absentee parents as well as the ones they loved very much.
Elisabeth told Frederick of her fear of being lonely and the difference between that and being alone. The latter she didn't mind. The former was something her loveless mother had settled on her. It wasn't good, but it was nevertheless a part of Elisabeth, one Frederick would learn to love.

With the passing of months, Frederick's need for Elisabeth grew. It never manifested itself through grand displays of meaningless declarations or through boundless despair when she turned out not to be where he wanted her. His affections became more frequent. A touch of his fingers against the warm skin of her neck, a soft kiss on her forehead when she slept or a deep sigh released into the forest of her long hair when their passion had been given into.
He adored her backside and she clawed in to his broad shoulders, as if they would save her from drowning.
It was not long until they fell into moments when all they would do was study each other. They craved to know the smallest and most intimate mannerisms of the other: the way their breathing slowed down when they had fallen asleep, how their neck strained after hours of work, how tension could be spotted in the way they wrote.

Little notes made their way into Frederick's pockets.
The most frequent one read: "I love you more than chocolate".

The Adventures of Elisabeth and Frederick - Part 1

E: The first time Elisabeth saw Frederick, he was standing at a ticket counter, chatting to a man with more tattoos than plain skin.
She looked twice. One of those rare moments when your eyes want to see what they have already seen again. A closer, deeper look - one that is needed should those eyes ever learn to love what is before them.
Frederick was a German of ancient Prussian descent, tall and built like the noble wardrobes of old. He wore a golden crown of thick hair on his head, reminiscent of his ancestry.
But what drew Elisabeth to him at first were his eyes. Bright green, like the freshly mowed grass on top of an untouched hillside.

F: Frederick had had a bad day. He was meant to go lose himself in the latest Hollywood blockbuster, something he did often and with great pride, but his friends cancelled their plans at the very last moment. He went all the same, even though the prospect of sitting alone in a dark room made him somewhat uncomfortable.
There at the ticket counter, he met Elisabeth. She too seemed to be on her own, yet much more comfortable with that fact than him. Elisabeth spoke first, something which Frederick would always cherish.
Holding up her ticket, she asked: "And you?"
He smiled: "Touché".

The film finished two hours later, but Elisabeth and Frederick did not go their separate ways until the early hours of the morning.

First, they fell in love with Berlin.. then with one another.

Caught Up With The Shadow

He almost didn't catch up with her.

Almost.

Scarlett heard him approach her before he had said a word. She turned back, suddenly icy again.

“Hi, hello,” he began breathlessly. “If this were a movie, you’d have given me your number in the time ellipses between shots.” He laughed, twirling his battered old cell phone in his hands.

Scarlett unabashedly looked him straight in the eyes.

The hope in his eyes almost faded away. As he opened his mouth, Scarlett-

“If you would like to ask me out, then ask me out properly. Even if your intentions are completely honourable and you just enjoy my company, do it like a man. Don’t hide behind the let’s get coffee sometime.”

She took a step closer to him, her eyes painfully penetrating his. But he couldn't look away.

“Be bold.” Scarlett took a deep breath and waited. This is where they all run and hide. The men today are nothing like they once were. They’re all cowards, hiding behind the “let’s be friends” or the “I don’t want anything heavy”.

“Are you always this friendly?” His feathers had been ruffled and yet he still looked… intrigued.

Scarlett was caught off-guard. For the first time in decades, Scarlett was caught off-guard. She had not lived this scenario out a thousand times before, she had no witty, deadly comeback, guaranteed to shut him down and make him go away. She was unprepared.

Scarlett let out a half-suppressed laugh. And then another, and another. She raised her eyes to meet his, finally emanating some warmth. She made no attempt to conceal the shining smile that followed.

“The thing is, if you’d like to see me again, I want to know that you want it above anything else in this precise moment. I'm not interested in a half-arsed attempt. If you want it, then show me that you do and how much.”

“Are you always this demanding?”

“I'm very demanding, yes, but this isn't it. Why would I spend a single instant of my time with someone who wasn't certain that he wanted to spend precious moments with me?”

Scarlett could see him processing her words quickly, trying to make a snap decision.

He cocked his head to the side, like he did in the cinema. Then –

“I think you’re interesting and I’d like to see you again.”

Scarlett kept her eyes fixed on him and extended a hand.

He took it with hesitation.

She blinked and through her smile, she softly said:

“Your phone.”

“Oh right. Yes.”

He handed it to her, shuffling his feet awkwardly. He looked to the ground, trying to conceal the little triumphant look on his face.

Scarlett typed her number and handed the phone back.

“Wait,” he said, as she began walking away. She stopped. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“No… I haven’t.” Scarlett smiled once more, finally turning away, and began her brisk walk to the tube station.

That was more than enough smiling for one day.

After The Second Film

“What did you think?”

His voice interrupted the post-film haze once again. Scarlett twitched with annoyance. This was one of the reasons why she went to the cinema by herself and never sat next to anyone.

After films ended, she always sat through the credits in silence, dreading the moment when the lights would be turned back on. They would drag her back to reality, kicking and screaming inside, parting once more with her true world, the reality that had been taken from her. She never liked to think about the fact that that world had never belonged to her completely. She was going to change that, once she had found what she was looking for. That would finally satisfy her and the thirst for recognition, the ultimate and sublime immortalisation in black and white. Scarlett took a deep breath.

“I think that it’s almost as disappointing as the first time I saw it.” In 1952, she silently added. “And now if you’ll excuse me-”

She wrapped her black faux fur around her neck, exposing her pale arms for a moment.

“You probably have somewhere to be, but listen-” he began, while Scarlett reached for her bag. “Give me your number, we’ll go for a pre-film coffee sometime.”

Scarlett turned around and, inexplicably, dazzled him with a smile.

“Why don’t you ring me at the end of the week and we’ll see…”

A promise lingered in the air between them. The man smiled back, surprised that he’d gotten her to gift him with a smile, and not a frosty one either. He searched his pockets for his phone, remembered something and turned to fish it out of his coat, lying over the seat in front of them.

When he turned back, Scarlett was gone.

Immortality At The Cinema

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

The sudden flash of voice cut through the deep haze the film had left Scarlett in. As she fought to regain control over her senses, she turned her head slightly and raised her eyes to the figure standing next to the empty seats beside her.

“You have,” she replied. Her voice had an initial layer of coldness, something that was meant to put people off wanting to continue conversing with her, or God forbid, thinking she was approachable. Her British education had served some purpose after all. Distinctly unfriendly, but never discourteous.

The figure’s head bobbed in front of the light glaring from above. He must have been in his mid, maybe late twenties, longish brown hair tied up in a man bun and a tall, robust frame. He was Marlon Brando, with a modern twist.

Meeting people who reminded Scarlett of the past could have one of two effects on her. She’d drown in the few moments she’d give them of her life and then she’d spend a few hours sulking and searching for a release for her nostalgia. Usually this would materialise in the form of a mad film spree or five consecutive hours spent at the cinema. The other response was more violent and a whole lot bloodier.

This was different.

Marlon sat down next to her, his shoulder rubbing against hers. He was a lot taller than her. She liked that in a man. Errol had been about 6 foot 2.

“I think it’s one of her best performances. You know they said she went crazy after they finished it?”

“Her madness got her a second Oscar.” Scarlett surprised herself. Why was she engaging in any kind of conversation with this stranger? “That must be worth something.”

“I don’t know if I’d trade my mental sanity for an award,” he replied, still rubbing shoulders with her. The lower part of his face began twisting. She realised after a moment that he was smiling at her. A big, genuine grin spread across his face, making his eyes almost light up.

Scarlett felt herself begin to smile. She forced her lips into a slight pout, a trick she had learned in Old Hollywood. Smiling had never been fashionable. The half-pout half-smile was a gracious way of demonstrating superiority and control over one’s emotions.

“You clearly have never been famous before.”

“Have you?” He turned around to fully face her. Marlon studied Scarlett carefully, trying to understand if he had seen her before and if he had just made a complete fool of himself. He cocked his head to the side, quizzically. His eyes were a pleasant shade of Lulworth blue.

Scarlett caught herself in time.

“In another life perhaps.” Technically not a lie. I’m completely out of practice, she thought to herself. This time, her half-pout transformed into a smile. He won.

“You and me both.”

“Are you staying for the next film?”

“I am. Although nothing could top Streetcar at this point. Not even a good dose of Gene Kelly.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Gene Kelly fan.” For the first time since he had sat down next to her, Scarlett looked at him properly. She searched for something in him, but came up empty-handed. No. He was no Flynn.

“Are you kidding? Singing In The Rain is the greatest musical on earth. I used to watch it every time it rained for a good year when I was six.” He laughed self-deprecatingly and ran a hand through his hair, raising his eyes to meet Scarlett’s.

After a few long moments, he broke the silence. “You don’t blink a lot, you know?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

He considered his answer.

“No.” He blinked.

Scarlett looked at the blank screen in front of them and readjusted her faux fur stola around her shoulders.

His hand appeared from the side.

“I’m…”

Scarlett interrupted him.

“Tell me after the film.”

They sank into silent darkness together as the lights over them dimmed and the blank screen suddenly, joyously flickered to life again.

Vamp Alive

The first breath she took after she had died was painful. A cold, stabbing sensation all along her throat that carefully but surely spread throughout her chest. The second became the gateway to an addiction. She never stopped breathing after that.

Scarlett, or Frida de Sirois as she was known then, had been an actress in the early 1930s. Born to a distant, rigid British aristocrat and one of her Austrian lovers, she had been pampered with culture from an early age. She had someone to watch over her and keep her away from the world outside the doors of their Kensington mansion at all times.

But fate had other plans for her.

Scarlett would never become a Duchess or a Baroness.

A chance encounter with Errol Flynn at a society event had opened her eyes to everything she was missing out on by letting her mother dictate her future. Before meeting that scandalous rogue, who had already left a string of broken hearts throughout the English upper class, she had been happy to let others decide what was right and proper and what was not. He changed all that in a conversation that lasted a heartbeat. Scarlett said goodbye to the comforts of her old life and embarked on an adventure with the Tasmanian devil. After two weeks together, he introduced her to Marc Anthony Reiss, who was already one of the most influential players in Hollywood. He promised to make her a star.

And she would have become, if it hadn't been for Brenner and his faulty Delahaye 135, or so they said. The two were arguing when he swerved to avoid that shadow that had suddenly pounced in front of the car. After the collision with something else, Scarlett passed out, seconds away from death, who already held Brenner in his grips.

“No” The shadow’s frantic voice whispered. “No, not like this, it was never meant to be like this”.

The soft, female voice repeated herself again and again, until –

“Forgive me.”

Had Scarlett been conscious, the pain of the shadow’s fangs ripping through her skin would have been intolerable.

It was as if she had died after all. Her family would not look for her after the disgrace she had threatened to bring upon their name. For all her mother knew, Scarlett was begging on the streets of Hobart after being discarded by that diseased Tasmanian, and for all she cared, the woman who was no longer her daughter could rot there. The Tasmanian had left her too and married that awful French actress. If that wasn’t a sign that she had fallen from grace, then she didn’t know what was. Even the dirty prisoner didn’t want her anymore. She was no longer virtuous, beautiful or noble. She was no longer worthy of her title.

The Hollywood people wouldn’t spend too much time looking for her either. She wasn’t a well-known face yet and other actresses were proving to be ready to take her place in the pictures. Errol would miss her, but he had his hands full, as he always did.

Scarlett put down her empty Starbucks cup. She had finished reading a long review of the latest film about her old lover. It was an “in-depth and explicit” look at the rape allegations that surrounded him. She shook her head. Errol could be persuasive and he was always very charming, but he had a heart of gold. He would have never made anyone do anything against their will, especially not something as intimate as sex. She blushed a little, remembering their time together. No, she thought. He would have never touched those girls like that.

She looked down at her vintage Cartier watch. Time to go. The show would start soon. She quickly checked her hair in the little pocket mirror she always carried around. Everything was still in place: the ends of her straight hair were curled, the red lipstick beautifully seductive on her lips, the shimmery eye shadow and black liner around her eyes playing with the contrast of her cat-like blue eyes. Not a single wrinkle in sight. Scarlett didn’t look a day over 24.

It was the 18^th of May 2014.

The Italian

"What are you thinking about?" Jane asked her. The question she had been waiting for, yet would not answer.
Her mind wandered back to those days in Rome, to the day she met Cesare.

Italians were a lot more easy going than she thought. Yes, this did meant that the level of appreciation bordering on sexual harassment she received walking down the street was higher. But what it also meant was that he had had no problem approaching her in the club, even though she was surrounded by her friends, male and female. He didn't ask whether she was with anyone, whether she was taken, he simply took her hand and introduced himself. This olive-skinned Roman with those piercing blue eyes.
His English wasn't very good and her Italian was average at best. They understood each other by gesticulating, laughing, touching, and not long after, that final first kiss.

The time she had spent in Italy had confirmed that her Nordic looks were not considered particularly beautiful or elegant there. Men would occasionally make a passing comment when she walked by, but they wouldn't stare at her for more than a few seconds. But Cesare didn't seem to notice. He gently poked her freckles and played with her heavy, reddish hair.
"Carota." Carrot, he said, twisting it around his finger.

Italians don't know how to handle rain. She smiled as she remembered teasing him about it: "You're hardly going to melt!" she laughed at him, as Cesare ran to take cover under a terrace of some elaborate political building. A few drops had fallen. In England, this would go unnoticed. In Italy, people raised their umbrellas in defence and shrieked loudly, until they found somewhere that would protect them from the rain.

Of course, they fought like animals. She had never dreamt of becoming one of those women that shouts at her lover in the streets, only to then push him against a wall, slapping and kissing him. The deep, unflinching British social etiquette would never have allowed it. Here, it was a demonstration of mad passion. They fought and loved and desired each other from Piazza Navona to Via Veneto, from the Colosseum to the Castel Sant'Angelo.

She couldn't pronounce half the food they ate together and he tickled her when she called him "pet".

"So are you looking forward to the next time you end up in the Eternal City?" Jane asked her friend.
She smiled.
"Oh yes."

Just After The Invitation With Love From Fate

David wandered into the club as if in a trance. He didn't understand the music, he didn't understand what he was seeing and he didn't know where he was. All he knew, was that he had to see this through.
The bouncer at the door had taken no convincing at all, which shocked and thrilled David. He was never the type to persuade bouncers with his walk or, even less, with a "don't you know who I am" look.
He sat down at the long, L-shaped glass bar and turned his back on the dance floor and the winding staircases that took you God knows where.
David took out the card and studied it quietly, moving it back and forth to the rhythm of the Kalkbrenner brothers. His throat itched in anticipation, a fizz ran through him, causing his senses to be on high alert.
The barman, an elderly-looking ex chain smoker, noticed him and grumpily dragged his feet to the other end where David was sitting. But when his eyes fell onto the elegant card in this common man's hands, something in his eyes changed. David didn't notice the fear. He was too preoccupied with himself and this mysterious invitation. It had turned into a promise he had made himself, to live a little. To do something he wouldn't normally do. A sudden flicker of life in his otherwise dull existence.
"Scotch, on the rocks", he bellowed as he finally looked up at the barman. He had never drunken Scotch before. Could it even be "on the rocks"?
"Coming right up." The other man hesitated. "The man you're looking for is not here yet. He-", he stopped dead in his tracks. Another man had slumped into one of the empty chairs next to David. He reeked of sweat, booze and an exotic stink that made David want to gag. The barman, feeling the rising pressure in his throat, mumbled something and practically jumped away to serve a group of conveniently placed girls at the other end of the bar. They all looked like pale and worthless imitations of a young Winona Ryder.
The man's eyes were bloodshot. His eyelids were betraying them and slowly closing, embracing them with forgiving darkness and calm. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, picking at it to make sure that there were no white reminders of the beginning of his night left. The only reminder that would stay with him was the money he no longer had, after paying that prostitute to do his dirty work. He took one look at David, what he was holding in his hand and sighed, murdering the air around him.
"The one you need is standing in the back area. He's the one dressed like a cunt."
David felt himself gag again. He nodded and jumped up, desperately searching for the toilet signs.
He found them near the entrance he had come through, in a short corridor below the ground floor.
David took three steps at once and reached the right door just in time.

Feeling a little better, he let the door close behind him. There were four other doors in the corridor and the largest one, presumably leading to another corridor, caught his attention. He could hear something coming from behind the not so heavy door. Something that wasn't the chatter or the ever-changing music.
There were noises, a few words and then more noises. Glass broke. He slowly pushed the door open, revealing a man holding a woman up against the wall, her arms and legs wrapped around him. Her closed eyes were heavy with black eyeliner and her parted lips were pink and puffy. The man's face was buried between the woman's pale neck and the tumbles of the woman's long, dark auburn hair. David never saw his face. They didn't notice him quietly slipping away, leaving them to themselves.

"The back area" had simply meant the more exclusive part of the warehouse-turned-club. The men gathered around there looked like they knew what a razor was and the women wore heels and lipstick. A shallow, plain indication of faint upper social standing. While the other people in the club, sweating on the dancefloor and getting elbowed in the ribs at the bar, had normal, perhaps even happy faces, the people here were the personification of gothic. There were no smiles, no direct eye-contact, only fast gestures and tension rising. David slowly walked over, taking everything in.
What did the exotic stink man say again? "He's the one dressed like a..."?
David shook his head. He took the card in his hands again and held it against his chest. Maybe someone would-
"ACHILLES! HE'S HERE!", a voice shouted in his ear, deafening him for several seconds. An arm of muscle that felt like iron steered David towards one of the better lit tables. A man had turned his head at the mention of the Greek hero's name. But this man was not Greek. Even David, who had never taken an interest in different European looks, could figure that out. The man, because above anything he was a man, was tall and sported the broadest shoulders David had ever seen. He didn't have a body builder physique and yet he carried himself with grace and presence, and above anything else, control. Yes, he looked like a man in control.

Achilles had been worried about the new arrival. The last one had been an almost immediate disappointment, flinching at every deep look Achilles had given him. That one would have shat himself at the sole mention of a Kalashnikov. But this one was better. He wasn't overly muscular, but he looked like he could hold his own. He didn't smile, but held out his hand instead.

David worried about having made the biggest mistake of his life. Who were these people? Why was he offering them his hand? They were going to cut it off, he knew it, they were going to break it into a thousand pieces and feed it to the-

Achilles' hand enclosed around David's. He almost crushed it, but David didn't bat an eyelid.
"Good", Achilles thought. "Better".
Out loud he said: "We've been expecting you. I'm Achilles. I assume Miroslav told you what you are needed for?"
David nodded curtly. "Miroslav". Who the hell was Miroslav? Then he changed his mind.
"He didn't say much, as usual".
The man with the iron arm sniggered.
Achilles half-smiled. David relaxed internally. Must have said something right.
"Typical", Achilles raised an eyebrow in contempt. He was offered a Cuban cigar by a cute girl with short blonde hair and an ample bosom. He took it without looking at her and lit it. Blowing out the smoke, he sized David up, man to man.
"You'll be reporting to me. But before we get to the business, let me introduce you."
He had a slight accent, but David couldn't place it. No one said "the business". It was just "business".
Achilles glanced at David, a small part of him interested in the new recruit.
"What do we call you?", he asked.
David's world collapsed and found itself again. He felt a push of fate drive him to make the next snap decision.
"Kip".


To be continued..

Kitten

They had barely taken two steps from under the train station shelter when it began to rain. It wasn't a romantic, delicate whisper of drops, but a heavy, relentless shower of chilly autumn tears. Thunder roared angrily at the people running away from the street, searching for a safe haven wherever they could.
But not these two.
Their time together had been brief, but it had been real. Alive. And she loved the rain more than anything, something she shouted at him, laughing manically as he pushed her into a puddle. Luckily for him, she was wearing Doc Martens and not her favourite and very fragile black boots. She gasped for air between her manic bolts of laughter, almost collapsing on the cold, wet ground. But he didn't have time to be worried, for she ran to him and jumped. They almost fell, tangled in lust and love, swinging together in their own throws of clothed passion. Water was streaming down both their faces, gluing her long hair to her face, making them both squint at each other. The kiss they shared was accompanied by lighting, like their relationship had been.
A car honked at them, irritated at these two fools kissing in the middle of the road.
They took no notice and kissed again, and again, and again. This night would never end. The rain would never end, it would wash away the past, the present, the future, the entire world. They would be alone in the universe, the galaxy at their feet, overwhelmed by them, being together.
She broke away, for the first time in always and forever.
"You make me feel like a kitten", she whispered breathlessly, holding onto his broad, German shoulders, trying to steady herself. He had picked her up off the ground, as if she was a little weightless kitten after all.
He smiled and kissed her again, without letting her feet touch the ground. Knowing that he wouldn't drop her, she wrapped her legs around him instead. Their kiss lasted an eternity and a half. And still, the rain would not stop. Cologne would be drowned in it.

I've Made You Common

The location they had chosen to meet in was inappropriate. The people who were gathering around the terrace wore hats and drank German beer instead of cocktails. Inside, the music was pumping away happily, creating an up-and-coming and very hip atmosphere. You wanted to feel young, to feel modern again? You dressed like these people and drank beer outside.
He knew that she still loved him, with a passion, like she used to. There was no reason to consider the far away possibility of a change in her.
But when he saw her again, sitting at one of the tables across from the coloured bar, something was different. But what?
They greeted each other with a sense of honouring their memories together, but there was a distinct coldness to her touch, her words, spoken as if they were formed of boredom.
She interrupted him and spat her words out with a calm collection. She was together, as the words that could have destroyed a man fell from her lips.
"I lied to myself when I told you that no one had kissed me like you did. I lied to myself and then to you. Many before you have kissed me like that and many after you will. When I drew you as unique in my mind, I was hallucinating. You are as common as the rest of them, like all the ones I've had before you and the ones that will come once you're gone. The only thing that I can still remember as exclusively yours and mine, is our beginning. The way it made me feel to be with you, to hear you and feel you. But then that was broken and I became used to it, as did you. It was beautiful and it remained so until this ended. Until we killed it."
He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes glazed over with the harshness of her tongue.
She continued without hesitation, cutting through him and his forming thoughts.
"But I can make you common. I have made you as common as they come, like all the others. I took what was ours, what we shared and had the same with others. I recreated our stolen moments and shared them without wasting another thought towards you. So now they're not you and me, they'll never be you and me again. You are just one of the people with whom I had moments, experiences like these. And for that, I won't even be grateful. Why should I, since you are just one of many and not the one and only?
You are no longer unique and singular to me.
I've dragged you from your throne of memories in my head and I've dragged you through the mud. I've made you common."

C'est fini.

A Further Invitation, With Love From Fate (Who is Kip?)

"The shipment is landing in less than an hour," Achilles murmured. Kip looked at him, faking understanding and concern. "Do you want me to go?" he eventually asked, looking at the floor. Say no.
"No. They get spooked by people they don't know. They'll put you in a cobra cage before you even explain what's happened, who you are and why you're there in my stead." Achilles shook his head.
What on earth was a cobra cage?
Before Kip could ask, Achilles swore quietly under his breath.
"I can't leave her. But I can't let anyone else go to the airport either. Fuck. FUCK."
Kip shifted from one foot to the next. Achilles' shoulders slumped and he let himself slide to the floor of the dark corridor. The only source of light was coming from the slight opening to the bathroom.
"I told Lara I'd stay with her."
Kip ran a hand through his hair, before remembering that it has gone. His buzz cut didn't agree with his hands. But it made him feel like part of the group. He swallowed hard, then..
"I can do it."
Achilles looked up.
"I can look after her."
Achilles didn't reply.
"I've done this sort of work before you know." Kip lied, but Achilles wasn't paying attention. His eyes had wandered to the bathroom door.
"You can trust me."
And there it was.
Achilles stood up, straightened his dinner jacket and gave Kip a quick nod. He gestured to the door and wasted one more quick look in the other man's direction.
They walked those five steps to the door as if they were going to their hanging. Kip could feel how sickened Achilles was by the idea of leaving Lara in the care of someone else, especially after what she had tried to do. And he was always the one who stayed with her during her cleansing bath, the one who would gently exfoliate her shoulders and make sure her hair didn't get wet. He wasn't the only one to have seen her in all her naked glory, but he had known Alice and Arthur for years. Kip was new.
But was he trustworthy? Achilles wondered. He's wrong for this.
Achilles had no time to elaborate on the thought. The seed of doubt was always going to be there.
Lara had her back to the door. She didn't move when the two men walked in, Kip respectfully staying behind Achilles who ducked down close to her, to give a brief explanation of where he was going and why. She didn't look at him once.
Achilles stood up and sighed. He turned to walk out, but stopped when he was shoulder to shoulder with Kip.
"Let some more hot water in the tub in about ten, fifteen minutes. Make sure she isn't cold. You have to know when, she certainly isn't going to tell you. Pour some more of that Moroccan oil on her shoulders when she turns around." He seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable. "When she wants out, you hold the towel open for her and look the other way. I find out you -" He stopped and composed himself. "That you saw her, and I'll put you in a cobra cage myself." And with one long, wistful look at Lara's soapy, naked back, he walked away.
Lara turned around. Her chest was covered in bath foam, so there was no risk of Kip seeing any part of her she didn't want him to see. That's the problem, he thought. He edged closer to her, grabbed a sponge and knelt before her. He tried to not look into her eyes while he gently dabbed around them to get the layers of dark eye shadow off her cheeks. She lingered, her lips slightly parting when the sponge moved from one side of her face to the other.
She caught his gaze. Kip froze. Her eyes had all the sorrow in the world mixed in a pool of icy blue.
"I need you" they said, pleading with him.
But before he said "fuck it" and hurled himself into the cobra cage, Lara pulled away. In one swift and practised, sudden and unexpected movement, the possibility of having her right then and there was gone, ripped from his world. He fell on his backside and crawled to the wall opposite the bathtub. He turned towards her but kept his eyes on the foam.
She didn't notice and she didn't care.
He was out of her cruel mind already.

An Invitation, With Love From Fate

The streets of London were bustling with tired co-workers making their way to the nearest pub to drown their sorrows, groups of tourists that had preferred the late afternoon tours through the capital and teenagers shouting abuse at each other. The young man taking in the last drag of his Camel cigarette was leaning against a shop window and shaking his head at the world in front of him. Would London always be like this, he wondered as a red-faced Swiss couple with a shrieking toddler moved past him. Is that what I’m going to become in ten, fifteen years’ time?

He chucked the cigarette stub in the air, missing the nearby bin by a mere centimetre. He huffed, walked over and picked it up from the ground. Something caught his eye. He disposed of the finished cigarette in one smooth movement and shifted closer to the small black, green and golden ticket poking out from underneath a dirty cardboard box.

It read “K. Midnight” on one side and had an address scribbled by hand on the other. The elaborate design around the writing in the middle suggested that it was some sort of invitation or reminder for an elite party, some place the young man would never dream of going. He gently lifted the box, pulling out the card and without thinking twice, putting it in his pocket. It had been the most dangerous thing he had done all day.

The journey home was taking longer than expected, but Alice and Arthur didn’t mind. The gentle rocking of the train was casting a delicate bubble of calm over both of them. Everything had been organised to welcome the new arrival at midnight the next day. It would be at their usual place, the hidden warehouse off the motorway, a place so desolate no one would ever dream of coming to look for any of them there.

Arthur’s head dropped slightly. He had fallen asleep. Alice tilted him towards her so that he wouldn’t rest against anyone else. They wouldn’t thank him for it.

Everything had been prepared. Everything was going to be fine. More than fine, it would be perfect.

Lara turned in Achilles’ arms. The absinthe had long lost its power of joy over her and she had sunken into a deep sleep on one of the sofas in the warehouse. The fact that she hadn’t left with anyone by that time meant that for once, she wanted to spend the night at home. Achilles paid the cab driver, grabbed the black crocodile bag and heaved her out of the car. They were alone on the quiet street once the taxi had disappeared into the night. Achilles turned towards the old Georgian house and began walking towards its long, pointy gate. He opened it with a firm push of his body weight and slipped through. Walking swiftly through the garden, he noticed that the watch dogs had been fed recently, which to him made no sense. It must have been just after three. Clearly no one was expecting intruders tonight.

As Achilles stopped on the porch, Lara’s head rolled back, tilting away from him. Her pale face was illuminated by the candles burning from inside the house, shadows playing a game of fire on her. He sighed as he began looking for her keys.

At Night, In the Dark

(Inspired by Edward Hopper's Nighthawks)

The coffee stings my tongue. It's four in the morning and the city has deserted me.
Can you feel me, thinking of you?
The old man looks to me, questioning what I'm doing here, in my elegant evening gown. My hair is still made up, my make up is heavy and has not faded yet. I look like I did when saw him for the last time, when I saw you for the last time. You wore that uniform so very proudly.
The drunk man sitting opposite me burps. He smiles to his ghosts, but not at me. Do I hate him for it? Perhaps I should. I'm the only woman here, and this bastard has not deigned to look at me once.
In swans a man with a crooked nose. He's too relaxed, too sure of himself. He comes and stands behind me. I can hear him lighting a cigarette. He does not offer me one when he takes the seat next to mine. I do not gaze at him like I should.
I need you, my eyes should say.
Take me away, my lips should say.
I look at my nails. Someone is playing some part or other of Chopin's Nocturnes.
The man leans in closer, but still does not speak. He rests his hand on my thigh. I do not look at him. Can I encourage him with stillness, hatred even? How dare he touch me. And you're not here.
He is the only man alive for miles and miles. The only man who has so much as looked at me in months. I'm powerless.
The old and the drunk exchange a few murmurs, then a few sniggers. They make me sick to the stomach and I want to leave. I do not. I sit there with my unwanted companion, waiting.
He seems to have all the time in the world. If I let him love me tonight, will you come back to me after all? Or will you be disgusted and distracted and die in some horrible way because your mind was elsewhere, on me?
On how we were together?
This man's nose intimidates me. He wears it with pride. Maybe it was you who punched it until it was broken. Maybe you knew that I would not last long in this brutal and cruel world, not without you. My protector and knight in shining armour.
But where are you now?
Is it many miles away or are you hiding somewhere near?
Will I see you if I turn around?
The man speaks. He tells me about desire, his desire for me. He tells me things I used to hear you say. He tells me that we'll all be gone tomorrow and that this is the last night on earth. I wanna be yours, he whispers. I can hear the words, but I hear nothing else. It is as if there was no humanity left in him. He too had loved and lost. And perhaps his love is spying on us now, plotting to kill us after we have given in to each other.
How and when will I know where you are?
He strokes the velvet on my dress and compliments it.
The other man has gone silent. He stares into the darkness of the diner, at his hands. Has he murdered, I wonder.
My hand moves closer to this man with the crooked nose. He sees it, but does not move. He thinks this is a game of want and wanting, of prolonged desire.
Poor fool.
No more nights like these, I beg you. We will never go out at night, not in the cold and not in the warm.
We'll stay together, in our little bubble, as if there was no tomorrow.
No yesterday, no today and no tomorrow.

Smoker's Stern Warning

Normally she would just wrap herself in one of her many silk kimonos, slip on the matching house slippers and give her short curls a quick brush. But this was one of those occasions. He needed another little nudge to do the right thing, so she had to be immaculate. She had to remind him who they were.
As she walked into the library, the first thing she noticed was the strong scent of cigar. He had picked up that habit again then.
He turned around to greet her, a slick smile on his young, handsome face.
You must tell her the old woman said after the usual pleasantries. She deserves to know.
Her smoker's voice was one the young man knew all too well. It had taught him all he knew and more.
Thus, he nodded unenthusiastically and lit another cigar. His lips curled and deigned him an air of superiority, an air that had come with his inheritance.
The old woman touched the ruby at her neck. Usually she would drape herself in diamonds, but this was not one of those occasions. He needed a stern warning.
If you're going to drop her, she needs to know straight away. She needs to plan her next move and get away from here as soon as it is possible for her. The scandal won't wait. She did not avert her eyes from him, while his were glued to the cigar.
She watched him linger out the moments before he had to give a proper answer. He had her brother's long, elegant nose and her sister-in-law's smile. The eyes were her father's. Cold as ice and full of malice. The kind of malice that attracts and destroys. And he would destroy his latest prey before the evening was out. Everyone would know and she would die inside. He would live again, refreshed, like a vampire after having fed on virgin's blood. Beautiful as ever.
No one in the family must know. They would demand a marriage of you. They know of her wealth and they would not allow you to let this opportunity fall at your feet and be kicked away, she croaked.
Yes dear aunt. He raised his champagne glass and toasted to his ingenious plan, of which his beloved aunt would know nothing until he had executed it. He would keep the wealth and leave the woman. No one who had ever attempted such a thing lived to tell the tale.
He noticed her long, silky skirt and her white, cold blouse. The only thing that was breathing life into her was the ruby. A strange choice for an afternoon spent at home, with family.

Lace and Tea In The Afternoon

It was one of those beautiful, yet instantly forgettable days.
The girls were wearing white lace and chiffon, running barefoot on the freshly mowed grass. The boys were playing a ridiculous game of cricket, each one of them displaying no talent at all. Of course, they pretended to excel, like with everything else.
The lord and lady of the house had gone for a long ride through their many fields. He had briefly remarked that he wanted to check on the constructions of the new foundry in the next town, whilst she wanted to buy some new ribbons for the girls. The lady liked to make these kinds of purchases herself, instead of sending the tasteless new maid. She missed her old maids, maids that knew her inside out, but after the latest hushed-up scandal, the man of the house, the pater familias had let them all go. Scared old man. The lady suspected that he had bedded all of them and was afraid that with the wave of revelations that was hitting their part of the county, they might speak out about his indiscretions.
It was a picture of quiet beauty, of still serenity. If someone would have frozen this or that moment during the course of the afternoon, it might have looked like an Impressionist painting.
No one felt the impending sense of dread.
The girls made flower garlands for their long, free-flowing hair and the boys played tag, occasionally glancing over to the girls and giggling at their girlishness.
The adults had tea and discussed anything but politics and what was going on in the land. They too could not see beyond their own fields, beyond the life they knew.
A storm would hit and devastate them soon enough. The higher powers knew that. So they let blissful ignorance gently cast its spell over this calm, delicate summer's day.

Late Night Thoughts With The Bartender

The men flocked to the two new arrivals like cocks to hens.
How pathetic. They ran and rammed into each other, trampling like an elephant herd.
I sniggered to myself as I watched them.
They were so obvious in their attempt to get laid. It was cruel upon the eyes.
I sniggered a little more and turned to my friend, who was quietly ignoring the entire scene. He sipped on his drink like a man who had done nothing but elegantly sip on drinks through thick and thin. He looked over to me coolly.
"What?" His eyes said, sharing my disgust at this display of shallow need.
So they couldn't keep it in their trousers for more than a day or two?
Ah hell, who could.
We'd all be at it if we could.
I reflected on my stream of consciousness, despising every word as I revisited it.
I miss this, I miss that.
I miss you, I miss me.
I miss me.
I sipped on my drink, not realising that the glass had been dry for a while.
The bartender took one look at me and poured me another finger of champagne, or something that looked remotely like it. It tasted nice.
The bunch of horny elephants did not return. I felt blessed to be distant from them.
The stupidity seemed to be contagious.
But we all struggle sometimes. I can't iron for shit. The man next to me smells like cheap loneliness. The one on the other side is asking himself how I am. How he is. How we are and how we should be.
Does it really matter?
I downed my drink and stopped the bartender from topping it up. He understood, nodding at me with no smile at all. I understood.
I uncrossed my legs, sighed at the emptiness of this past evening, sighed at the fact that I was not tipsy, sighed at the frustration I started to feel towards the world.
Bitter. Bitterness. Bitter Bitterness.
But it isn't wrong to feel a little bitter sometimes.
Only if it is sometimes and not more.
Tomorrow will be different.
And with that thought, I returned to the bar and ordered another drink.
Existentialism could wait.
The night was young and so was I.

Run Run Lover Run

The car seats were damp.
Kee had left both windows open, in an attempt to get rid of the stale smell of smoke and the pungent taste of vomit. Rose pulled the two sweaters he had given her tighter around her shivering body. Her lips were slowly turning blue, but she would have rather frozen to death than continued to breathe in the poisonous fumes.
He was still driving. She looked outside, catching a glimpse of a sign reading a Northern town.

Where are we? Where are we going?

She sighed resentfully. Kee turned to her, that look in his eyes again, and turned away again, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. Stolen, like the stinking car. In fact, the only thing that was not stolen, was one of the two sweaters that were not keeping her warm. The blue one with their initials.
Rose contorted herself into the passenger seat beside Kee. He had lit a smoke and was puffing away, trying hard not to blow the sickening gas into Rose's face. He would have earned a mighty slap for that, no matter how tired she was.

"Do you know where we are?" She asked him later, before turning on the broken radio.
"Somewhere up north." He replied curtly.

I can't do this. I can't stand the smell, the taste, the sight, the atmosphere. Stop. Stop.

"I liked this song once upon a time." Rose said, turning the fake volume up. She started whistling along. Kee looked over at her and smiled his crooked smile.
"It was playing when we met."
"I know, you silly bugger. I know that."
They whistled together until their lips felt numb. Then Kee stopped in a hidden car park, just off the country road they had been driving down for the last half an hour.
Their kisses revived their lips. And suddenly the damp car seats did not matter anymore. The terrible smell had almost gone.

But we'll never be free of what we have done. Of what I have done. Of what I made him do.